Dance With Me
by Illusive Woman
Summary: A story of Vega and F!Shep, beginning with her house arrest at the beginning of ME3
1. Chapter 1

On her thirtieth birthday, a woman was entitled to wallow and think about her choices. Locked in her golden cage, Athena Shepard took full advantage of the privilege.

Worrying a fingernail, dressed in the cotton shorts and tank she'd exercised in, she silently took stock of her life. She'd lost her rank and her ship, her crew and her Spectre status. She'd lost count of the number of people she'd killed in the line of duty. Mercenaries, criminals, assassins, opposing soldiers. Sure, she'd also saved countless people, but it was hard to see that when whispers of the dead haunted her dreams. Even the Batarians, maybe especially the Batarians, would never let her rest. As some old American president had said, it takes many good deeds to build a reputation, but only one to shatter it. And now, because of this one deed, her voice was ignored.

The Reapers were coming. She'd bought the galaxy some time against them with the deliberate murder of an entire colony, but what difference did it make? Instead of looking for ways to protect themselves, the galactic races were still just bickering with each other, letting old grudges instead of new threats direct their politics.

Agitated, she got up to pace. The adrenaline filled her every time she thought about it, basic fight or flight, but she had nowhere to flee and no one to punch. Her chest ached at the impotence.

"Commander?"

She whirled to face the door, and forced her body to relax, her mouth to smile. "Lieutenant. For the hundredth time, you're not supposed to call me that." She crossed her arms and cocked a hip. James Vega stood in the at-ease position, hands at the small of his back. "At least you didn't salute this time."

The respectful-Marine face gave way to that mischievous smirk she'd come to know from her guard during her time in confinement. "That would ruin the surprise," he said as he slowly moved his massive arm out from behind his back.

In his hand was a big bottle of top-shelf tequila. "Happy birthday, Lola."

She stepped forward, amused at both the gift and the nickname. "Thanks, James. I guess my reputation preceded me, huh?"

"Well, I thought about getting you some other things instead. Gun mods, a ship model, some asari lingerie. . . " He gave her that grin again.

"But how would you know my size?" she said, although she grinned back. She stepped forward to take the bottle from him, inspected it to hide her face. She knew Andersen had chosen him as her guard specifically because he was sympathetic towards her. He always spent part of his shift in here with her, playing poker, holding her feet while she did sit-ups, watching vids, chatting. Basically keeping her from going insane. Some days - most days, actually - he was the only human contact she had. He was simple, generous, tough, stubborn as a mule, and built like a brick shit house. He was a soldier, first and foremost, just like her. He was the only one around here who didn't look at her like she was a monster.

And she saw the way he _did_ look her sometimes? - like he was still awed he was spending time with _the_ Command Shepard, hero. She'd sparred with him more than once, tried to beat that look out of him, bleed in front of him, show him she was just a person. She didn't want to be anyone's goddamned hero. For the most part, it had worked. But that look of hero worship had been replaced by that flirty grin, and it was a little harder to figure out what to do about that.

"Be worth the guess to see the tats."

"What?" she asked, jerked out of her thoughts.

"Rumor is you've got some awesome tats in some . . . awesome places. Care to share, _mi amigo_?" He took an easy seat in her desk chair.

Athena smiled. She could flirt back. Hell, it was one of her primary skills. And it kept the day interesting. She stepped in front of him and leaned over, gripping the arms of his chair. "Well, look at what I'm wearing. Or what I'm not," she said, gesturing to her workout attire. "If I've got 'em, they've _gotta_ be in some awesome places."

His eyes flicked over her. "Not fair, Lola. _Dios mio_."

She laughed and grabbed the tequila she'd set down on the desk. "I'd apologize, but you asked for it. And look who's talking about 'not fair.' Do you deliberately buy your shirts two sizes two small, or is it a happy accident?" At his laugh, she hesitated, then waved the bottle in his direction. "Share? I'd hate to drink alone on my birthday."

His eyes lit up as he took the bottle from her to crack the seal. "Mama always told me to never let a pretty girl drink alone."

"Well, we can't disappoint Mama Vega, can we?" She perched on the edge of the desk, studying him. He was nearly a head taller than her and twice as wide. At first glance, he looked like a standard-issue Marine meathead. At second glance, he looked the same. It was only after you talked to him awhile, after he'd worn through the jokes and flirtings he used to keep people at an arm's length, that you saw what a good-hearted man he was inside. He'd never be anyone's valedictorian, but, like everything else about him, his brains were solid. In a good way. He might think slowly, but he _thought_. He chewed over everything she said before replying; he offered his true opinion rarely, but you knew when he did it was a thought-out and honest judgment. And given the good judgment he'd shown so far, she knew that when it came time to make split-second combat decisions those decisions would also be right.

"Glasses?"

"Nope. We're gonna do this the old-fashioned way, James," she said as she took the bottle from him. With a wicked grin, she put the bottle directly to her lips and chugged a few shots' worth at once.

"Lola!" he laughed as he tugged the bottle from her hand. A small splash hit his hand and her tank as he pulled it away. "_Poco loca_! You gonna hit the floor, _pelirroja_!"

She gasped as the burn of the alcohol hit her stomach, then her blood. "What?"

"What?"

"What was that last thing you said?"

"_Pelirroja_?" He smiled. "Redhead, Lola." He stood to touch a strand of hair that had escaped her messy bun. Wrapped it around his finger. Stepped a step closer.

His eyes met hers, and she stilled. He'd touched her before, plenty of times. He was a touchy-feely kinda guy - always punching her shoulder, touching her arm, letting her lean against him when they sprawled on the floor to watch a vid - but this was different. His hold on her hair pulled, hurt, and she liked it. Her heartbeat sounded in her ears. He was _smoldering_ at her with those eyes. It was wrong. It should be illegal.

The moment held, lasted, while they looked at each other. Suddenly, Vega broke the tension. He smiled and, quick as a cat, moved his hand to her bun and pulled out the band keeping her hair up. With a cry of surprise, Athena desperately tried to keep her curls out of her face as the hairstyle collapsed. She was left standing, appalled, as the fat crimson ringlets of her hair settled around her arms and back.

"There," Vega said, satisfied.

"There _what_?" she asked, exasperated, as she tried to put her hair back in order.

"_Bella_." He reached over to take her hand. "Lola, you are too pretty to wear your hair like an old woman. Why do you do that to yourself?"

"Asks the guy with short hair. Because I have too much hair and I hate it." She sighed. Her hair, she knew, wouldn't submit to the bun again until she showered.

"If you hated it, you'd cut it off. Besides," he rubbed her knuckles with his thumb, "woman like you knows hair like that's sexy as hell."

What was it about the red curls that turned men on? He was right, though, it was why she didn't chop it all off. But she was disturbed. This just wasn't like him - she knew he had hot blood, just like her. Knew he could handle flirting without thinking it was romance, just like her. But he wasn't smirking, and that was a little terrifying. So she could keep arguing with him, or she could try to joke him out of whatever this mood was.

Joking was her best option. He may take home girls from the local bar, but when a man like James Vega flirted like this, with his hand on hers and his eyes all dark, he wasn't thinking innocent flirting. He wasn't joking. If she let this continue, it wouldn't be a one-night stand or a simple fuck-buddy arrangement while she was under lock and key. It would be the one thing she'd avoided since the clusterfuck that had been her time with Kaidan. It would be a relationship - and flirting may have been as natural as breathing, but she had some serious special-needs going on when it came to relationships. It seemed like half of the guys she met made moon-eyes at her eventually and just as fast as you could say "black widow" they were out the door. So she wasn't as quick to jump under the covers as she'd been. Hell, half her crew on the Normandy wanted to get in her pants and she'd resisted.

Unfortunately, that also meant it had been a damn long time since she'd been laid. Especially if you counted those two years in a Cerberus lab. She was easy pickings and she knew it, so it was time to change the tone.

So she took the bottle of tequila back from him and walked across the room, taking a swig. She sat on the floor with her back against the foot of the bed and used the bottle to gesture at him. "So did Papa Vega have any pearls of wisdom to share?"

His face closed at the mention of his father, and she instantly regretted the question. Apparently, this was a touchy subject. He sauntered over, taking his time before plopping on the floor next to her. His arm and thigh were touching hers, and he reached over her body to take the tequila and swallow some.

"_Mi padre_ . . ." He started, then paused. Shepard wondered if he would really talk, or joke it off. "It's hard to have pearls of wisdom when you're hopped up on red sand all the time."

She realized she'd been holding her breath, and let it out. They wrestled for the bottle for a second, but Shepard poked him in the side to make him let go. "Been there, done that, got the t-shirt. My dad. Alcohol," she said when she saw him watching her. She waved the bottle. "Guess the apple doesn't fall far, huh," she said bitterly.

"Don't talk like that, Lola." He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, gave her a small one-armed hug. His words slurred just a little. Between the two of them, the bottle was mostly gone.

"How should I talk, then?" Her words were sharp, but her body fit neatly against his. She laid her head against his shoulder because . . . well, because it seemed like the thing to do, that's why. Another shot of tequila. That seemed like the right thing, too.

He fixed her with his serious look, but the tequila made it impossible to joke him out of it. His voice was impatient, bordering on angry. "You're Commander Athena Shepard. You saved the Council, saved the Citadel. You eat Reapers for breakfast. You ain't no alkie."

Shepard shook her head. "Apparently, I didn't beat enough of that hero shit out of you."

"Wha?"

"Yeah, I'm Commander fucking Shepard." She grabbed the bottle violently from his hand and stood, pacing angrily back and forth. "I've talked and talked and talked as Commander Shepard. I talked about Saren, I talked about the geth, I talked about the Reapers. _No one listens. _And now I'm sitting here, _fucking helplessly talking_, while everyone around me does nothing but _fucking talk_." Enraged by this point, she kicked her desk chair across the room. It split when it hit the wall, but she didn't pay it any attention.

She gasped when strong hands grabbed her shoulders and spun her around. Shocked, she looked up into James' dark, angry face. His fingers bit into her arms, not flirting now, practically lifting her off the ground.

"You listen to me, Lola. You don't lose faith, you hear me? Who cares what they're talking about? Those machines are coming, and the assholes in charge gonna beg for your help when they do. They need you to win this and they know it. So you believe. 'Cause if you don't believe, how can we? You hear me, Lola?"

She inhaled to respond, but his mouth was on hers before she could speak.


	2. Chapter 2

Her skin was soft. He knew that from working out with her, lounging with her, but those were casual, brushes of fingertips. He had his hands on her now, really deliberately running his fingers over her skin, and the softness of it over her toned muscles surprised him. She could pack a punch that rattled him, but her hands, now, under his shirt were gentle and even a little hesitant. But her mouth, her kiss - rattled him as much as her punches.

No pixie, her, no skinny club dancer or tiny vid star. Shepard was solid and well-built, tall enough that he could easily dip his face into the hollow of her throat to nip at her pulse. Her hair enveloped him, smelling like plums and some flower he couldn't name. She always smelled like that - that tiny bit of pure femininity that seemed totally unlike her usual tough-talking, foul-mouthed, ass-kicking self.

It killed him. _Caliente_. Both sides of her killed him. "Lola..." he whispered in her ear. He felt her whole body move when she giggled.

Imagine that. Commander Shepard, giggling, tipsy, melting into him like he was melting into her.

He pulled her closer. She murmured his name. If he'd stopped to think (if he'd been _able_ to think) he would have doubted there was a single atom of air between their bodies. He pressed himself closer to her, inhaling that scent and nipping at the sweet spot under her ear. It was as dizzying as the half-bottle of tequila.

"James."

Through the alcohol and the lust, he heard his name again.

"_James._"

Dimly, he realized his name hadn't come out of her mouth in a moan or whimper, but a command. And even as this thought cleared his brain, her voice came again - crisp, like an ice cube crunched in the teeth, "Lie_ten_ant."

He pulled away unsteadily, just an inch, watching her. Her hair was even more mussed and her face was flushed - but stern. And sad. But she looked him right in the eyes as she said, quietly, "We can't do this."

"That," he stopped to clear his throat. "That would sound more convincing if you weren't so handsy, Lola. And why the hell not?"

Blushing furiously, she dropped her hands from where they had been running over and lightly scratching his back. She dropped her eyes from his as well. He kept both his hands and eyes on her. She didn't move away. "Do you want them to reassign you? Or move me to another prison?" When he kept staring at her, she jerked her gaze back up to his and her voice grew angry. "Do you think you could walk in here for your duty shift tomorrow and pretend to absolutely everyone that you hadn't spent the night with your hands all over me? Could you treat me exactly the same as you did yesterday? Because I can't. And if they get a whiff of 'fraternization'" he could actually hear the quotes in her voice "then we'll both get our asses kicked. And you're the best thing I've got here and I can't fuck it up."

He was still trying to think through the tequila (later, he'd wonder how she sounded so sober and would decide it was the cybernetics) when she yanked herself out of his grasp and went to sit on the edge of the bed, covering her face with her hands tiredly. "I've already fucked it up," she said, and her voice was as tired as her face.

He sat next to her on the bed and gently pulled her hands down. She looked miserable, her eyes dry but red and her lips quivering. James touched her cheek, turning her slightly to face him. But when he dipped his head down to kiss her, she turned away, her eyes no longer dry.

"Just go, James. Please . . . just go."

* * *

Not sleeping made it hard to sober up. But he pounded some water and aspirin and laid down, dozing on and off in fits. During the large portions of the night he spent awake, James tried desperately figure out how things went so right then so wrong.

He'd always liked the Commander, even before he knew her. The Blitz thing went down when he was still in boot camp and he'd remembered being shocked when he'd found out through the picture vids that the Commander Shepard that held off all those forces was a woman. He'd been more shocked to see that she wasn't a hardened, ugly, butch fem-soldier - she was young and pretty, with a soft angelic face and serious, sad green eyes. It made him question all the judgments he was always making about the female recruits in his unit. It was the first time he thought there might be a woman who could seriously kick his ass.

Especially, as he began looking into records and watching vids of her, when he saw her glow blue and tear a metal dummy to pieces.

Seriously. She ripped something to shreds _with her mind_. And, yeah, some kind of biofeedback memory thing, but he didn't really pay attention to that section of training. He'd never cared how biotics worked, except to know how to defeat one if necessary.

She'd never been an obsession of his, but he kept an alert up on his omni-tool to save new articles about her when something of interest happened. The thing had practically melted after she took down Saren. And he'd nearly chucked it after she died, just to avoid taking out the now-superfluous alert.

Being her guard over the last few months had been an enlightenment. She was everything he'd expected - disciplined, angry, ass-kicking, strong, intelligent. But there were so many things the vids hadn't prepared him for. She was funny. She could make him laugh out of nowhere with a single, dry observation. She had this way of slipping right though his armor straight to his funny bone with a quick strike - and she always looked so _pleased_ with herself when she did. She was compassionate and wrote to her old crew weekly, even though she had to censor the letters and never got any in return (she was sure, and he agreed, that letters to her were being held). She could play Skyllian Five and tell hilarious stories and eat as much as he could (she blamed the biotics) and read a novel in a day. She could look you in the eye and tell you each and every way in which you were wrong and make it sound like a motivating speech instead of a dressing-down. And then she'd tell you each and every way what you were doing was right and give you something to build on.

How could he _not_ fall for her, at least a little? How could any man?

She was right - there was no way he'd have been able to pretend the world was the same it had been yesterday if they'd gone to bed. The problem was that, even though they hadn't, the world had still changed.

* * *

Lots of coffee on top of the aspirin got him up and moving the next morning. And, sure as shit, the second he goes to work with a hangover, he gets nabbed by an officer. Get Shepard. Bring her to the defense meeting. Serious Talk.

Whatever. He had more important things to think about.

He didn't know what to say to her, or how to act. As he moved through the halls, it kept niggling at him. _Just say hi? Ask if she has a hanger? Shit, should've brought some aspirin for her. Hijo de puta!_ _Dios mio, que voy a hacer?_

James paused just outside her door to take a breath. When he walked into her room, he fell into what seemed natural.

"Commander," he said, with the sharp salute.

She turned and seemed sadder than normal. "You're not supposed to call me that anymore, James."

_Mierda! Does she think I'm being unfriendly? Or mad? Or... what?_

"I'm not supposed to salute, either," he said, trying to joke. He took another step forward, staring at her, until he felt like the tension would swallow him. "Uh . . . we gotta go. The Defense Committee wants to see you."

"Oh, that sounds important," she muttered as she tossed her data pad on the desk and got up to follow him.

Shepard jogged to catch up with him and seemed discomfited by the fact that he wouldn't look at or talk to her. "What's going on?" she asked.

"Couldn't say," he responded, dodging her real question. "Just told me they needed you. Now."

The moment stretched between them, the tension a growing bubble, but he _was_ mad now and wasn't going to be the one to break it.

He fell back when Andersen stepped and watched Shepard's posture change, straighten, as she took in his words. He didn't know anyone else who would question Andersen with such demanding in their voice.

But as they rounded the corner, he thought about what she'd said, _You're the best thing I've got here._ She'd been a friend to him for months. He couldn't let her go in there thinking he hated her or something. And, she was right, he couldn't let on that anything at all had happened between them. As she turned to go in, he called out to her, "Good luck in there, Shepard."

She stopped, turned. She hesitated, but held out her hand to him. Instead of shaking it, he simply held it for a moment.

Before either one of them could let go, they heard someone call her name. Her hand tightened for a second in his. Because he was looking right at her face, he saw Shepard's eyes widen. Her expression went through several phases too quickly for him to make it, but they finally settled on a kind of tight neutrality. A politician's face.

Andersen stepped in, questioning this Lietenant, whoever he was. But James, always protective of Shepard, saw that the soldier's eyes kept traveling to her. It bugged him.

As Andersen and Shepard walked away, he indulged one quick moment of watching her ass. There was a brief, albiet fantastic flash of his hands on that ass the night before. Then he realized the man next to him was admiring the same view.

"You... know the Commander?"

"I used to."


End file.
